Let’s not beat around the bush. I love this record. Not because it’s going to change my life or make me cry or soundtrack a romantic encounter or anything like that. I love this record because it is absurd and ridiculous. Just the fact that it’s an electronic album made by a trumpeter with his seventy-something year old fellow-trumpeting Dad is instantly endearing.
It’s no surprise then that The Sound-Board Breathes doesn’t make sense. The album is chock-a-block with headache-inducing free-jazz discordance which somehow, like on opening track -Barons Court Turret’, works as euphoric insanity. Often sounds slowly reveal themselves, so what seem like electronic sirens turn out to be various horn instruments. Tunes seem to go around in circles with nagging melodies which are destined to make the listener either go asylum-style mental or gurning rave mental. This is most definitely not an album for fragile hungover heads on a Sunday morning.
If anything lets the album down, it’s the sustainability of the record’s sound throughout its 53 minutes. Due to insistent nature of the tunes, occasionally tracks begin to take similar melodic paths to each other and lead to the musical spot marked ‘what the fuck is this? I’m exhausted and perplexed’. But then tracks like -Tinseltown’ and -Sea Containers House’ more than make up for that, where the exhausting and perplexing elements of the tunes are engaging enough to not only counteract any problem of this regard but also help make them rather loveable.